Reporter tests her mettle with solitary wilderness trek

Story and photos by Eowyn LeMay Ivey

As my feet slipped out from under me and my 45-pound pack threatened to topple me down the steep embankment, I had to wonder, "Why am I doing this?"

I was less than an hour into my first solo hunting trip and already my arms and legs were bruised and scratched from thrashing through the alder. Far below me, a small tributary of the Matanuska River roared through a rocky, narrow gorge.

Never before had I ventured out overnight alone, and here I was setting out on a several-day hunt. I had realized earlier this month that the only way I was going to get out for anything more than a few hours was to do it by myself.

This, however, was only the most obvious reason for going alone. Perhaps on a more significant level I knew the trip would be a test.

After years of hunting with my father and husband, I had begun to wonder why I was drawn to these remote places, where success meant days of backbreaking work.

Was it simply a matter of wanting to be with these men I love? Or did I have the skills and desire to be a hunter in my own right?

As I grabbed branches to slow my descent, while at the same time clutching my rifle, I was beginning to doubt that I ever had either -- the skills or the desire. But feeling committed, I continued down to the creek, which would lead me to a slightly larger stream where I planned to set up camp.

I saw the bear tracks before I came across the bloody moose skull. The prints were obviously those of a brown bear, impressively wide and deep-set where he had padded across a gravel slide. I forded the creek, pulled my way up into the alder on the other side, and found what had drawn him here -- an upside-down moose skull, still stained with blood. The grass and bushes were flattened in a wide circle around it.

I didn't pause long enough to inspect it, nor did I wonder at the time where the rest of the moose, the bones and hide and flesh, had disappeared to.

Instead, both the fight and flight instincts kicked in. I chambered a round in my rifle and began trotting down the creek as quickly as the rocks and brush would allow.

My pack, filled with four days' worth of food, tent, sleeping bag, clothes, hunting knives, game bags, rope and other necessities, felt like a knapsack and my .30-06 rifle like a child's cork gun. Adrenaline pumping through me, I pushed and pulled my way through the alder, knowing that the sound of the creek would probably drown out everything else, that a bear and I would most likely come face to snout before we ever heard each other.

That afternoon, glad to have made it safely through what I had nicknamed "Death Trap Creek," I piled more wood on my campfire and glassed the slopes before me. It was a beautiful place, wild and ablaze in fall colors.

Camped not far from where the smaller stream flowed into the larger, I could look up both steep valleys. Alder thickets, dense willow patches and scattered black spruce seemed to tumble down the hillsides. Looking at my one-man tent and meager stack of supplies, I felt small and alone. Before dark set in, I crawled into my sleeping bag and huddled against the growing cold.

The next morning, I rekindled the fire, ate a quick breakfast and shouldered my rifle. If either my dad or husband had been there, they already would have hiked off into the dawn, but I still felt I was getting a fairly good start on the morning.

I first climbed the ridge behind my camp, just to make sure there weren't any kill sites swarming with bears just out of sight of my tent. Relieved to find nothing, I then circled back around to the confluence of the two streams and headed up the larger of the two.

I watched the slopes on either side of me and walked quietly. Still stiff and cold from sleeping on the ground, however, I felt uninspired and reluctant to even get my feet wet.

Just as I was contemplating returning to my fire, sleeping bag and book, I caught a glimpse of jet-black against the yellow and red. Less than 150 yards up the hill from me was a black bear, sitting on his rump, facing downhill toward me as he munched a mouthful of soapberries.

"Oooh," I felt a quiet gasp escape from me. This is it, I thought -- a chance to get my first black bear. I chambered a round in my .30-06 and set it on safety, all without removing my eyes from the bear. He hadn't even flinched at the metallic sounds.

Without taking the time to even breathe or look through my scope at the perfect shot I had, I rashly chose a plan. Since he was so oblivious to me, I thought, I would creep up the hill closer, just to make sure he was as big as he seemed but that he wasn't a sow with cubs just out of view.

As soon as I began clambering up the bank, my mistake became clear. Just as nonchalantly as he had sat there eating, the bear rolled over onto all fours and ambled into the thick brush. Meanwhile, I was being swallowed up by the same dense foliage. Within seconds the bear was gone.

Cursing under my breath, I dashed down the hill, not even noticing the icy water as I splashed across the knee-deep stream. I ran up the embankment on the other side, hoping to catch sight of the bear from this vantage point. Nothing. It was as if there never had been a black bear.

Frustrated, I continued up the valley and hunted with a newfound energy. Tracks and scat littered the shores of the creek, but I saw no animals.

The next night was even colder than the first. I tossed and turned, my toes numb and my entire body quaking with shivers. When had I become such a baby, I wondered. That morning, though, I crawled out of my tent to find my water bottle frozen solid. Perhaps it has been as cold as it felt.

I hunted downstream that morning, following the creek to the Matanuska itself. The rising sun glimmered off the water and lit up the cottony dryas plants, still frosted from the night before. Again, I crossed paths with animals of all sorts -- cow moose with calves, coyotes, fox, single moose, black bear and grizzlies -- all without ever seeing one of them. The tracks were frozen perfectly in the silty mud along the creek, and I took a few moments to photograph some of them.

That afternoon, I decided to pack it up and head home. I had enjoyed three days and two nights of solitude and excitement. I had hunted in the mornings and spent my afternoons lounging by the fire with a decent book, and I was left with that odd mixture of being both refreshed and exhausted at the same time.

Perhaps if I had seen something promising that day, or hadn't been so cold the night before, I would have stayed out one more day. But facing that monstrous climb up out of the valley with all my gear, I decided to plunge in and get it over with.

Wanting to avoid "Death Trap Creek," with its alder, brown bears and dead moose, I chose to climb straight up from the larger creek. My plan, too, would put me on the same slope where I had missed my black bear, and I half hoped he would still

be there.

He was. Nearing the top of the steep embankment, I leaned against my knees and wiped sweat from my forehead. Below and to the side of me there was a clatter of rocks and rustling of bushes.

I never spotted the bear, but a few yards farther up I saw his fresh tracks, still moist in a gravel slide. He was alone and just as big as I had suspected, but he was safe from me this day. I continued my climb out of the valley.

When I reached the tundra flats above, I took off my pack and set down my rifle. Stretching my back and letting the autumn breeze cool me, I looked out over the valleys I had hunted. Thinking of where I had been and what I had seen, I knew with sudden clarity what I had set out to discover -- I have the desire.

As for the skills, hopefully I'll acquire those with experience.

Eowyn LeMay Ivey covers outdoors and education for the Frontiersman.